


life, if well lived

by CaptainOzone



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Time Travel, but hopefully feels are had, oz plays with a lot of different timelines, rated for language, this is the furthest thing from canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 01:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18378512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOzone/pseuds/CaptainOzone
Summary: Jason wakes up from a time-travel mishap to find Thomas and Martha Wayne hovering over him.Just another day in the life, right?...Not quite.





	life, if well lived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ErinNovelist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinNovelist/gifts).



> In what is quickly becoming the story of my life: I, again, blame ErinNovelist. 
> 
> To be fair, I suppose this is what I deserve for dragging her into Batman hell with me.
> 
> We both watched the "Happy birthday, Batman!" montage that DC put together on March 30th, which featured numerous actors from Gotham, the CW Arrowverse shows, and new actors from upcoming series, including Pennyworth. It just so happened that Thomas Wayne’s actor put an adorable “Lots of love, Dad” tag on the end of his message, and paired with Martha’s actress’ “Love, your mom,” I just about lost it. When I shared it with Erin, she spewed a prompt so damn fast I was left reeling. 
> 
> This is the outcome. Maybe not exactly what you imagined, Erin, but I still hope you like it! It's yours to take off my hands. I'm done. I can't anymore, lol.
> 
> Another note: I have no earthly idea where this fits into the Bat-Fam timeline. Maybe in Rebirth? Around the time Selina and Bruce were just engaged? Or around the time of the now-much-beloved Bat Burger scene? Or maybe not, because Tim's "dead" around that time? 
> 
> ..we'll just accept that this exists outside of time, lol. Pun intended.

“...Sir?”

There’s a gentle nudge on his shoulder, light and warm, and Jason groans as he turns into the touch on instinct. Sharp pain slashes through his head. It’s unrelenting and fucking murderous _,_ so he screws his eyes shut, unwilling to be dragged anywhere closer to consciousness if  _that’s_ the sort of welcome he’s going to get.

God, he feels as though he’s been hit by a bus. Or several.

Hell, maybe he’s gone and gotten blown up again. Who the fuck knew. But, really, that would be just his luck, wouldn’t it?

“Sir?” the woman whispers again. “Are you alright?” This time, he can taste the concern in her tone. Her voice is sweet and rich, like honey. He doesn’t recognize it, but he thinks he likes it. It’s nice. The cool fingers brushing against his forehead, pushing back the damp locks plastered there, are even nicer.

(This can’t be Hell then. Hell wouldn’t see fit to providing him with any comfort after his second death. It definitely hadn’t the first time ‘round).

There’s something digging into the back of his skull. It’s kind of obnoxious. He groans again, moving to relieve the discomfort, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The light is like a motherfucking bullet to the eye. Why.

(He decides it’s better to hold off on looking at the angel right now. He’s probably unworthy to so much as bask in her light or some bullshit like that. It’s a wonder he’s not being incinerated for his sins as he lies on his ass before her feet).

“Jesus, Martha, don’t—”

The woman’s hand retreats. “He’s hurt, hon.” There’s a new edge in her tone, something Jason can’t place, not entirely. He doesn’t like it. It reminds him of another woman, another time. A crappy apartment in the city, a raised hand, broken beer bottles and stains in the carpet. “I can’t just—”

It’s worth opening his eyes for. He struggles, squinting against the searing dazzle of sunlight the woman is silhouetted in. His vision blurs and spins, a nauseating palette of muted maroon, chestnut, cream, and gold swirling before him.

“He appeared in a flash of purple light,” the man is saying slowly. His deep voice would be pleasant too, if not for the clipped way in which he’s speaking. “From out of nowhere. In the middle of our living room.  _Armed to the teeth_.”

Purple light? That doesn’t sound right. That sounds...

Ugh, fuck him. His  _head_.

(Purple light be damned. This sucks balls).

“...So?” the woman asks.

“ _So?”_ the other repeats, incredulous. “We don’t know who he is, much less where he  _came_ from.  Look at what he’s  _wearing._ Look at what I took from him! Can you imagine what might have happened if Bruce were—?”

“ _Of course_ I’ve considered it. Of course I have. But I’m telling you right now: it’s not one of them. We’d  _know_.”

“We wouldn’t know until they were at the foot of our bed, Martha. That’s how they work.”

“But even still—”

Their voices fade into a rush of noise as they continue their argument, unaware that Jason’s stirring, uneasy and irritable. They don’t see his parched lips forming several choice words because  _what in the fuck is going on here_?

(And what the fuck did they just say about Bruce?)

He struggles to remember. There was...a mission? Yes. It was going well until it suddenly wasn’t. Because Bruce was there when he wasn’t supposed to be.

As  _Batman_.

A belated sense of danger sends his heart racing. They know. They know, they know, they know. Somehow, they know about Bruce.

Were they captured? Where are they? Where is his helmet? Who are these people?

And  _how_ do they know about Bruce?

He might not be on the best of pages with the old man, but Jason isn’t about to let some upstarts get anywhere close to Bruce or their family should their identities be compromised. No-fucking-sir.

 _Alright, Todd,_ he tells himself, and if his inner voice sounds almost like Damian right now, then it’s truly a sad day for all of them.  _Stop pussy-footing around._ He needs to begin cataloguing his status, his location, his injuries, his captors. He needs a plan. And he can only do that if he  _gets up off his ass._

Jason finally manages to keep his eyes open against the glare of sunlight. His vision hasn’t settled entirely, but he can see enough. There’s a man, broad-shouldered and dark in comparison to the woman, as fair and slim as she is, and he’s...he’s got her wrist in his fist.

Jason’s predicament is forgotten in an instant, and red filters into his vision.

He surges to his feet, adrenaline powering him through his disorientation and pain. He stumbles halfway up and ends up staggering to his knees, which he’s sure looks  _mighty_ intimidating, especially when he reaches for his pistols and finds his holsters empty.

Oh, well. His fists will do just as well.

“Hands to yourself, ass-wipe!” Jason growls, teetering where he kneels.

The woman pulls away from the man easily. So easily, in fact, Jason’s got the sudden, gut-griping feeling he’s fucked up, misread the room, somehow misjudged things. The man gapes at him, dumbstruck and horrified. It’s the look of a man whose been accused of something he finds just as abhorrent as his accuser does, and...

Huh. Jason’s vision doubles as he stares.

“...what the...?” He pauses. Blinks. Stares again. “Bruce?” he asks dumbly.

That can’t be right.

He topples, balance skewed, and the woman launches forward to catch him. Her hands wrap around his biceps, and he notices, somewhat distantly, that her wrist is unmarked, unharmed. The man immediately dashes to her side to help support him, but he’s not happy about it, his entire presence screaming  _protect_ and  _defend_ and  _if you try any funny business with her, you will lose a finger._ His hands are steady as a surgeon’s, eyes flinty and hard, his mustache twitching as he presses his lips into a thin line.

...Hang on.

“Is that a fucking mustache?” Jason murmurs aloud. He snorts. “What fucking universe am I in?”

The man blinks at him, as though  _he’s_ the one who’s gone completely mad. It makes Jason snort again.  _Joke’s on you, Bruce,_ he thinks,  _because that mustache is—_

Jason gapes, clarity striking like lightning.

It’s amazing, how alike they are. They could be mirror reflections of one another, but this...this is  _not_ Bruce. And yet, Jason knows that face. He only seen it his whole life, first in the papers and then in the Manor, his portrait blending into the background, a watchful protector of its halls and silent confidant to the misfit family who took residence in his stead.

Jason turns and confirms he’s not hallucinating when he immediately recognizes the woman at his side. She’s a natural beauty, with a softness and grace that even the most talented artists and photographers could never hope to replicate in their art, but inexplicably, it’s  _her_ : auburn curls, painted lips, killer cheekbones, and all.

Hell, he even recognizes the  _room_ now. He’d spent too many hours reading in here not to.

“Thomas and Martha Wayne,” Jason breathes. “ _Fuck_.”

It comes back to him in a flood. An easy case based on a tip from Roy. A rookie villain with an artifact of unknown origin. Classic juvenile delinquent story: abuse, shitty foster home, out on the streets, and in possession of a power he never had before. Batman, somehow following different leads and ending up meeting up with him partway through his stakeout. Batman, taking control of  _his_ case _,_ ordering him to try to speak to the kid once he’s in their sights, to try to deescalate as he approached from behind. Batman, handcuffing the kid after what was a very pathetic scuffle and warning Jason  _not_ to play around with the artifact while they waited for the GCPD, like he was a child who couldn’t control himself.

Jason, playing around with the artifact anyway, just because he could. And because  _fuck you, Bruce._

(Well, shit. He’s gone and played himself, hasn’t he?)

Thomas’ hands have frozen on Jason’s shoulders, tension singing through his touch, but it’s Martha who ends up asking, “You know who we are?”

“Sure,” Jason says, and he’s giddy now, drugged to the brim on the fucked up fact that he’s somehow here. With  _them._ “Everyone does. And that’s not even my excuse.”

“What is your excuse, then?” Thomas asks, tone biting.

Jason pulls a sloppy, shit-eating grin, laughter bubbling up through his chest. “Would you believe me,” he says, “if I said I’m kinda-sorta your adopted grandkid from the future?” 

Thomas bursts into skeptical, almost cruel laughter. “This must be a hoax. I can't believe this.”

“Believe it, Gramps,” Jason says, between uncontrollable giggles. “God. This is so fucked up. Why me. Why. It could have been anyone. But nooooo, it’s  _me_.”

If any of his so-called family were anywhere in the vicinity, they’d tell him he asked for it. He can imagine it now. The  _I-told-you-so_ s are just the beginning. They’re never going to let him live this down.

Thomas’ face has gone pinched and stony, and it only makes Jason laugh harder because  _damn,_ that is Bruce all the way _._ The man releases Jason and pulls Martha away with him. Jason nearly face-plants again without their support: it’s through sheer willpower that he remains upright.

“Alright,” Thomas snaps. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself, or I’m calling the poli—”

“Hang on, Thomas,” Martha interrupts. She approaches Jason again, leveling a look at him that leaves him even weaker in the knees. All his previous humor is wiped away under the power of her gaze, and he feels naked and vulnerable in a way that he hadn’t since his mom was sober, back when she had the presence of mind to notice when he accidentally made a mess and tried to lie his way out of trouble.

“Prove it,” Martha requests gently, cocking her head. “Prove to us you aren’t lying. That you’re not here for some form of elaborate prank. That those guns we took from you aren’t a reason enough for us to call the police.”

“Easy,” Jason breathes, captivated by the command she’s taken over the room. “I’ll tell you a secret. Something that only you and Bruce know.”

“Martha, be reasonable,” Thomas says. He’s hovering behind her, hands shaking as he hefts something heavy in his palm. It may even be one of Jason’s own guns. He’s too dizzy to tell. “This is utterly ridiculous. Not to mention  _dangerous._ You can’t honestly believe that this man—”

Martha ignores her husband entirely. “Alright,” she says to Jason. “What’s the secret?”

“Bruce’s afraid of bats. He fell, once, and he’s been terrified since.” Jason revels in the wide eyes that follow in the wake of his declaration. Thomas, eloquently, mouths  _what the hell?_ and Jason can’t help but smirk. “But don’t worry, he’s not afraid anymore. He’s...” Jason hunts for the right words. “...learnt to pick himself back up (1).”

The color drains from Thomas’ face.

Martha, on the other hand, looks as though Christmas has come early. “...Bruce...grows out of his fear of bats?” she asks, tone dazed, eyes alight with awe.

Jason considers and chuckles ironically. “No. He grows  _into_ it.”

~...~

Jason sits at the kitchen island, nursing a cooling cup of tea. He tries to ignore the way Bruce’s father’s eyes track his every movement, both severe and inquisitive. The man is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, clever fingers running over and over the cell phone Jason used as an additional point to prove his claims. It’s easily two decades more advanced than any telephone Thomas has seen before, and Jason can tell he wants to ask about it, about  _him_ , a million questions blazing in his eyes. Martha, for her part, is content in the awkward silence, her calm gray eyes trained on Jason, but it's all a facade. Her curiosity is even more palpable than her husband’s.

At this point, Jason can’t give a damn what they think, much less what they want. He’s already said too much. Now that some of the dizziness has dissipated and he’s officially no longer punch-drunk, he’s decided the smart thing to do is follow protocol. Sit tight. Don’t do anything stupid(er). He knows better than to say another word. If he keeps his damn mouth shut, he can’t mess up the time-stream any more than he already has.

Assuming he hasn’t already created an alternate universe by just  _being_ here. Jesus.

(He knew he should have paid more attention to the speedsters when they started lecturing about time travel).

Martha shifts, drawing Jason’s attention. She leans forward onto her elbows, folding her fingers to rest her chin upon as she studies him. “So what happens now?”

Jason falters and shrugs, aiming for nonchalant but clearly failing, if the heart-wrenching sympathy in Martha’s eyes is anything to go by. “I wait, I guess. The only people who can help me now are twenty-or-so years in the future.” He fiddles at the teacup, running his thumb along its handle. “They’ll find me.”

He hopes. He doesn’t know. Not for sure.

(He can’t imagine Bruce doing anything but, and Jason’s not sure if he resents Bruce for it or if it’s just further proof that his resentment, for all its worth, was misplaced from the very beginning).

He hates that he’s confronted with his shortcomings and regrets right here. Right  _now_. In front of Thomas and Martha fucking Wayne.

“You can stay as long as you need to,” Martha says without hesitation. 

Jason twists the teacup back and forth and taps an anxious beat against its side. Both Waynes fixate on his fidgeting, and he forces himself to stop. “Hopefully I won’t need to,” he says, unable to help the defensive bite in this tone.

He may be fidgeting, but he’s  _not_ panicking. Not in the least. Weird shit’s happened to him before, and this is just another one to add to the list. He’s trained for this. He and the Outlaws have dealt with far weirder, anyway.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s just swell. He hasn’t faded into nothingness or anything, and all his memories are intact as far as he can tell, so that must mean he hasn’t fucked up too badly, right? So long as he keeps his head, what damage can he  _really_ do, anyway?

But, see, despite what he tries to tell himself, Jason really can’t handle heavy, awkward silences any better than he can keep himself from messing around with time-bending artifacts.

“I’m sorry I accused you of abusing your wife,” Jason says abruptly, because that, at the very least, is something that needs to be said. He’s not a complete asshole. He’ll admit when he’s wrong, and no matter where he stands with Bruce, he refuses to leave that sort of first impression on  _his dead parents._ He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t say something now. “And then called you an ass-wipe. That wasn’t too cool of me.”

There’s hint of Bruce’s humor in the quirk of Thomas’ lips. It’s how Jason knows, without reasonable doubt, he’s forgiven. “Not in the least.”

“In my defense,” Jason says, and he matches Thomas’ light tone, “I was a little messed up at the time.”

“How  _is_ your head, dear?” Martha asks.

“Better,” Jason says, ignoring the way his stomach flips at the term of endearment. It’s undeserved. “I’ve had worse.”

To avoid further conversation, he takes the first sip of his tea, immediately recognizing and appreciating the hint of zesty lemongrass flavor. It tastes like home, like lazy early autumn afternoons spent out on the patio after school. In his mind’s eye, he can see Ace streaking across the yard after his ball, Bruce wiping his slobber-coated hands on his already grass-stained pants, sheepishly laughing at the expression of mild disgust on Alfred’s face as he...

The cup slips from Jason’s fingers. It clatters against the white granite, and he catches it before his tea spills across the island.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Alfred. How could he forget  _Alfred?_

This isn’t good. He can’t let Alfred see him. Baby Bruce...If Bruce sees him, at whatever age he’s at right now, it’s hardly the end of the world because no kid can fully trust their memory when they’re young, not even intelligent ones like Bruce. Jason’d be a blur of a memory at most. But  _Alfred_? Alfred’s got a memory like a steel-trap. There’s no way in hell Jason’s getting out of this without wouldn’t altering something, somehow, if Alfred sees him now.

It’d...It’d change  _his_ story, undoubtedly. It might even change Bruce’s. All the others’ on top of that. And despite everything, Jason...Jason owes Bruce. He owes him for more than he cares to admit. He wouldn’t change it. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not this way.

Those years with Bruce—before Ethiopia, before the Lazarus Pit—they were the best of his life. The prospect of losing that scares him shitless. He refuses to barter any of it away. Not on his second life.

Hell, he’s...he’s finally at a point where he’s... _okay_. He’s comfortable with his lot, and it took a lot of blood, sweat, and bullets to get there. His life isn’t perfect, but it’s  _his_. He owns it, and he’s not about to let some stupid time-travel mishap take any of it away from him.

(God, he’s a fucking  _moron._ Why does he do the things he does?)

Suddenly, there’s a pair of fingers snapping in his vision, and Jason jerks away, hand flying out to smack the offender away. It’s habit more than anything, considering a) Roy and b) the other birds he’s forced to associate with. “Knock it off,” he snaps.

“We lost you for a moment,” Thomas says, unfazed. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m just...” Jason lets the statement trail off with a scowl and takes another sip of tea. “Where’s Alfie?” he blurts, leaning back in the barstool to peer through the glass of the kitchen’s back-door, praying to every last deity he knows he won’t see the butler working out in the yard. “Not that you don’t make a nice cuppa, Mrs. Wayne, but—”

He stops abruptly, a new slew of unease tripping down his spine as both Thomas and Martha, as if in sync, share an indecipherable look. “What?” he asks warily.

“You really  _are_ family,” Martha muses. “Aren’t you.”

Jason's silence damns him.

“Only family gets away with calling Alfred that,” Thomas agrees. He pushes away from the counter and sits beside Martha at the island. “You said ‘adopted.’ Earlier.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Jason mutters, bouncing his legs. “And you shouldn’t ask.”

Thomas doesn’t press him, fingertips tracing the sleek lines of Jason’s cell phone again. “You must lead a truly incredible life,” he says, “to have somehow found your way here. Gotham must become an even stranger beast in the future.”

“You have  _no_ idea,” Jason agrees, and because he knows the man is fishing, he clenches his jaw and crosses his arms. “And we need to keep it that way. Because believe it or not, I don’t like the idea of accidentally erasing myself  _or_ any of the idiots who like to call themselves ‘family,’ thanks.”

“Idiots, plural?” Martha asks, her cheeks splitting into a brilliant, excited smile. “There are more of you?”

Jason stares, mouth popping open and snapping closed again. He narrows his eyes. “This is a trap. I won’t fall for it.”

“I can see why Bruce chose you,” Martha says brightly, her smile rich and sincere. Jason flinches, gut churning with something beyond nausea. She reaches across the island, and his breath catches in his throat. He withdraws his hand immediately, pulling it onto his lap instead. He avoids her eyes and bites the inside of his cheek, turning away to look out the window over the sink. He doesn’t need to see her face to know he’s hurt her. He can feel her crestfallen, confused expression from across the room.

He can’t stand it.

He almost wants to tell her he’s no good. That she shouldn’t spare him a second thought. That he’s  _hurt_ her son, first on accident, and on then purpose numerous times since. That he’s hurt other people, too, and doesn’t always regret it. That he doesn’t deserve her warm regard or her welcome, much less her clearly unconditional acceptance.

“I...realize you are concerned,” Martha says, slowly, her honeyed voice still so kind, despite the rejection he just dealt her, “about what...might happen to your future because of—” Jason turns to her in time to see her twist her wrist in a little circle in the air “—whatever this is, and I understand you can’t tell us everything, but...can—can you at least tell me, honestly, that you and Bruce and your...your siblings are happy? In the future?” 

Jason stares for a moment, uncertain how to reassure her without lying. The longer the silence stretches, the more her earnest, open expression fades, her lip catching between her teeth as she draws her own conclusions, makes her own assumptions. Her worry compounds, and Thomas is drawn to her, large hands cupping her shoulders and squeezing, a silent message of support.

Shit.

“Bruce...changed my life,” he finally settles on, and her renewed hope blossoms like a flower before his very eyes. “He changed all of our lives.”

They wait for more, but that’s all he can give them, his throat closing up on him. Dammit, he’s supposed to be  _mad_ at Bruce right now. If he hadn’t shown up and sabotaged  _his case,_ if he had trusted Jason, even a little bit, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

If anything, Bruce should be here, in his place.

 _Bruce_ should  _be here_ , the soft, untainted part of him whispers again, absorbing the sight of the two Waynes in front of him.  _Not me. Why me? Why not him?_

“I owe you both, too,” he says, before he can stop himself. A wry sort of smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It’s more than a little morbid, but he figures he kind of has a pass. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’m not sure Bruce would have taken a second look at the dirty street kid jacking his tires, much less offered him a meal and a second chance.”

Thomas bursts into booming laughter. “You’re kidding?”

A gravity-defying sense of déjà vu twists Jason’s heart into a pretzel. “What is  _wrong_ with you people,” he mutters, more out of amusement than anything. “That’s exactly how he responded, too, and that was  _after_ my scrawny ass tried to attack him with the tire iron.”

Thomas grins. “I expect he deserved it, for parking his car somewhere he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Try Crime Alley,” Jason jokes.

“Crime Alley?” Martha repeats, delicate brow furrowing.

Jason’s blood runs cold. Shit. Fuck. It...they wouldn’t know it by that name. They were the ones who essentially  _renamed it,_ if indirectly. Their deaths made the place infamous, and all sorts of roaches took the tragedy as an invitation to crawl out from hiding to reclaim what was once theirs.

“Park Row,” he corrects with an inner wince. “It’s...the neighborhood isn’t the same. In the future.”

Thomas frowns, a deep crevice forming between his brows. “As in the past,” he murmurs. “My father put a lot of money toward redeveloping that area of Gotham. It’s flourishing now. Why would...?”

Martha hums sympathetically, patting her husband’s forearm. Her attention, however, is latched completely onto Jason.

 _She’s sharp._ Sharper than her husband even, who, as Jason’s fully aware, is a renowned physician. She’s going to figure it out. Maybe she already has.

“You’re...taking this all remarkably well,” Jason says, hoping a change in subject will divert some of Martha’s laser focus off of him.

“Perhaps,” Thomas muses. “But then again, this isn’t even the strangest thing we’ve heard in recent weeks. It seems we live in a world where men use green rings to fly (2), bedtime stories become reality, and family legend threatens to repeat itself. What is a little time-travel, at the end of the day?”

Jason sits rim-rod straight on his stool. “ _What_?” he demands in a snarl. “Don’t tell me...”

He doesn’t have to finish his thought. He can see it written on the Waynes’ pale, determined faces. They  _have_ been threatened. And recently.

“We refuse to be intimidated by a group of preening thugs who think they have a right to this city,” Thomas says. “We won’t fall in with the likes of them.”

Ice slides down Jason’s spine, a storm cloud of doom caving his chest in from the inside out. He wants to warn them, to tell them they don’t know who they’re dealing with, that the Court of Owls aren’t an entity they can arbitrarily fuck around with, but he never gets the chance.

A slammed door echoes through the house, a stern shout of  _Master Bruce!_ and happy patter of feet following immediately in its wake. “Moooooom?” The child’s voice carries through the halls, its volume increasing by the second. “Mom, is Dad home yet?” 

Jason barely has the time to shoot to his feet before a whirlwind of navy bursts into the kitchen. His stool crashes to the ground, and the boy’s wide grin falls as he flinches at the shock of the noise, ice blue eyes flicking from his mother to the fallen chair and, finally, to Jason.

Jason has lost all sensation in his body. He’s ascended beyond the real into the  _surreal_.

Bruce stands before him in a Gotham Academy uniform, dark hair escaping from its gelled style, his face lined with baby fat that doesn’t quite match his lanky frame.

He’s so  _tiny_. It’s incredible. But that’s  _Bruce_. That’s  _his Bruce_ glaring out of that little body. And it’s so, so wrong.

(Jesus, Jason’s going to be sickif the kid keeps staring at him like that).

“Who’re you?” the boy asks, haughty and distrustful.

Martha rises from her chair to gather the boy in a warm hug. She presses a kiss into his hair and scolds, “Bruce, don’t be rude, honey. This is...”

“Jason,” he croaks.

“Jason,” Martha repeats slowly, tone warm and full. “He’s a friend.”

“Oh.” Bruce loses interest in him, noticing his father and beaming so brightly, so forcefully, it takes Jason’s breath away. He’s...he’s never seen anything like it. Not from his Bruce.

“Dad!” baby Bruce exclaims. He bursts from his mother’s arms and wraps his arms around his dad’s waist. “You’re here!”

Thomas bends to better accept Bruce’s tackle hug. “Of course, chum. I said I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I promised.”

It looks as though Bruce wants to say something about that, but his mother gives him a stern look over Thomas’ shoulder. There’s a spark of rebellion in his icy eyes in response, but it’s gone in an instant, something undeniably sweet replacing it. “It’s still...going to be just us tonight, right?” he asks in a small voice. Jason doesn’t miss the quick look Bruce sends in his direction.

“Of course, love,” Martha says gently, pulling Bruce close. Jason almost turns away, an odd, misplaced sense of guilt taking ahold of him by the throat. He feels as though he’s intruding on something he was never supposed to see, something precious and perfect. His presence here is like a shit stain on a freshly shampooed carpet, stinking the place up.

“We’ve only been hearing about this Zorro character for weeks,” Martha continues, almost dramatically, “And weeks, and  _weeks_.”

 _Zorro_? Did...did Jason just hear fucking  _Zorro_ come out of Martha Wayne’s mouth?

Jason doesn’t hear Bruce’s response to his mother’s doting teasing. His heartbeat is crashing, roaring, in his ears. It feels as though someone’s cracked a dozen eggs over his head, the yolk cold and slimy as it slides its way from his crown and down his neck, horror trickling, then flooding _,_ along the same path.

It can’t be. Not today of all days.

Jason watches as Martha continues to joke with and fuss over an ever-embarrassed Bruce, who, despite his protests, is basking in her attention. Jason watches as he orbits around his father, how open and trusting and  _loving_ their interactions are. He watches, as though an entity outside his own body.

This...this is the one and only time Jason will ever see Bruce like this. This is the last time—the very last time—Bruce will be this happy. This blissfully, innocently  _happy_.

A typhoon of  _wrongness_ and rage at the fucking injustice of it bashes with all its destructive power against his defenses. His will shatters under its force.

Fuck it all.

Fuck. It. All.

He’s been worried about what he might say or do to change things? Why? Why should he? He’s here, at this moment, and there’s a kid right in front of him who’s about to lose everything. He’s about to lose parents who obviously adore him, who love and spoil him. He’s about to suffer and grieve and become someone whose inner darkness has power over him, whose entire life could have been  _different_ had this night—this  _one_ _fucking night_ —never happened.

Jason can do something about that. Right here. Right now.

The implications of it are incredible. If he saved the Waynes, there'd be no need for Batman. And if he can prevent the creation of Batman, so to would he prevent the creation of the fucking  _weirdos_ Gotham spawned to pit against him. That’s not to say that Gotham won’t spawn weirdos regardless, that Gotham won’t corrupt and kill and maim and  _take take take,_ but...

The fucking clown has always said he’s nothing,  _no one_ , without the Bat, hasn’t he?

Is their current reality worth saving, if it means Jason can do away with someone like the Joker, who took dozens—no,  _hundreds_ —of lives? Whose body count probably exceeds that of all of the rogues in Central City combined?

Jason’s answer to that?  _Hell to the no._

And maybe he’s biased. He will admit that. Maybe his mind gets a little clouded when the Joker’s involved, but screw it all, what does it matter, in the end?Assuming it works, Jason’s history will change, too, and it’s not like anyone will remember him, in the end, right? Hell, he wouldn't even remember it himself, would he?

No guilt, no strings, no apologies, no need for forgiveness. A clean break, with numerous other perks besides. Not the least of which include saving lives, just like Bruce taught him to, and keeping a  _good_ family together that had no business being torn apart in the first place.

And besides, what does  _Jason_ matter in the grand scheme of things?

(He doesn’t. He never has, but maybe he can, just this once).

Gentle hands rest on his shoulders, startling him into snarling a deep growl. Instinct puts him on the defensive. His elbows rocket up, fists clenching in preparation to launch into an attack, but the man behind him squeezes his shoulders, communicating through touch alone, and whispers in Bruce’s deep voice, “Enough, Jason.”

Jason stops in his tracks, horrified to realize he was seconds away from breaking Thomas fucking Wayne’s nose. He blinks and finds them standing alone in the kitchen. Martha and baby Bruce have disappeared, though if he strains, he can vaguely hear Martha outside the kitchen, laughing after the race of little feet pounding up the staircase.

“Shit,” Jason whispers, shoulders slumping forward. His hands quake, and he takes a few, deep breaths to calm himself down. He hasn’t had an episode that bad in months. He thought he’d gotten better, that he’d managed  _some_ semblance of control.

What a joke.

“’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Is...I didn’t scare the kid, did I?”

“No. It’s alright, son,” Thomas says, taking a step back to give Jason some space. He’s not frightened, Jason notes, and isn’t that a strange thing. Maybe it’s the doctor in him. Or maybe that rigid backbone is something that’s wholly  _Wayne_ , something even affluent wealth and privilege can’t stomp out of their family line. “Martha distracted him when we noticed something wasn’t right.”

Heat floods Jason’s cheeks, burning the tips of his ears. “You are nothing like I expected you to be,” Jason murmurs. “Either of you.”

There’s a soft gasp at the kitchen door. Martha stands in the frame, pale lips pursed and eyes wide, a slender hand rising to cover her mouth. Alfred hesitates at her side, and despite his earlier assumption that it’d be a bad idea if Alfred were to see him here, twenty years too early, Jason’s immediately comforted by his presence. He looks the same as he always did, timeless, with perhaps a bit less grey in his hair, his expression carefully composed. He holds something bulky between two hands, wrapped up in an old towel.

“So it’s true, then,” Martha whispers, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You never knew us. Not like this.”

Jason shoots a look at Alfred, whose unflappable expression hasn’t altered since he slipped behind Martha into the kitchen.

He teeters on the edge of indecision before throwing himself off.

To hell with it.

“No,” Jason admits, blatantly ignoring the deep ache in his chest.

“We never get to meet any of you. We...we don’t get see him grow,” she adds, voice cracking, a sad, tearful smile on her face. Thomas goes to her side, his hands shaking as he intertwines his fingers with hers. “Do we?”

Thomas' composure cracks, and even Alfred’s jaw twitches, and it’s such a small thing, but Jason feels his heart shatter. He didn’t think about this part, about how much it would hurt to break this news to them, no matter how much of it Martha  _Sees-All-Knows-All_ Wayne somehow figured out herself.

He swallows harshly and shakes his head, grateful beyond all words that mini-Bruce was sent upstairs. He shouldn’t have to see this.

Martha inhales a shaky breath and exhales in a puff of air. “Okay,” she mutters. “ _Alright_.”

Jason itches to say something,  _anything_. He can’t comfort for shit, so he supposes all he can do is tell them what happens. How they can prevent it. Surely that knowledge is comfort in it of itself? He opens his mouth, but before he can get a single word out, Martha’s fierce look has him pinned where he stands, stunned into silence.

“Don’t,” she orders, and after exchanging a look with Thomas, she repeats,  _“Don’t_.”

Jason’s heart crawls up his throat. “I could tell you everything,” he says. “Anything. To—”

“Absolutely  _not_.”

“ _Why_?” Jason asks, voice breaking, cracking with frustration. “I don’t under—”

An odd trio of descending notes trills from the object in Alfred’s hands, and the butler looks down at it with a quirked brow. “I do hate to interrupt, but it seems the mysterious package I saw materialize out of thin air for one—” He coughs politely and pretends he isn’t addressing Jason, which is almost hilarious, considering he’s the only one he can  _possibly_ be addressing. “— _nimrod_ has a mind of its own.”

Jason has no choice but to numbly accept the chunky mass of gears and pendulums Alfred has in his hands. He recognizes it immediately, as well as the spidery handwriting attached to the note hanging from one of the more prominent pegs jutting from the artifact.

 _Okay, nimrod, even you can’t mess this up. Push me._

There are several other lines of text on the backside—Tim probably couldn’t help but explain, in some detail, how this thing works and how it will get him back home and what sort of consequences there’ll be if he doesn’t follow instructions—but Jason ignores it. He ignores the thing entirely as it begins to buzz in his hands.

He...doesn’t have to push the peg. He doesn’t have to do anything.

He raises his gaze to the Waynes, resolute. Thomas reads his mind, expression crossing the heavy line from despondent to stern in a heartbeat. “You can’t stay, Jason.”

“I thought you said I can stay as long as I need to,” Jason shoots back. “My life. My decision. I don’t have to do shit. In fact, I’ve been known to respond pretty poorly to people telling me what I can and can’t do. You just screwed up.”

“Jason,” Martha says. “Honey. It’s  _okay_.”

Jason’s jaw clenches. The artifact’s vibrating has escalated, sending spikes of discomfort up and down his arms. “What if I told you this is bigger than you? Bigger than the Wayne family? Than me and all the others?” When he sees his words have absolutely no effect on them, he spins to Alfred. “Alfie, help me out here. Please. Tell them.”

“I cannot say I have any idea what you mean, lad,” Alfred says, eyes sad. “I’m...I’m sorry. Perhaps, one day, but today...isn’t that day.”

"You have no idea what's at stake!" Jason argues.

" _Might_ be at stake," Thomas corrects. "And that makes the difference."

"You have to go home,” Martha says soothingly. “We won’t change our fate for the sake of yours, much less any one of our family's.”

“I refuse to believe in fate,” Jason snaps. “We make our own.”

“And we’re making ours. Right now. For all of you.”

Jason grits his teeth. “You don’t understand. This is what we  _do_. Bruce vowed to eradicate crime from this city, and we fight so that no one has to suffer through the same grief he did when he lost you. Some of the monsters out there...they make the Court of Owls look like petty children. And these monsters only exist because we do. We can changethat. Starting now.”

“You can’t know that,” Thomas says quietly. “None of us can. Time is fluid, isn’t it? Cause-and-effect isn’t as straightforward as we like to believe it is.”

“Maybe in Doctor Who!” Jason snaps out of pure exasperation.

“Oh, that’s still running twenty-plus years from now?” Thomas asks, and Jesus Christ, is the man actually smiling? Is he  _kidding_ right now? “See, it’s not so dark a future after all.”

“You are...” Jason can’t even put into words, misplaced fury plucking all appropriate words from his brain. “So much like your son,” he finishes in a hiss. “And so unlike him too. Fuck you.”

If they’re appalled by his language or his attitude, they don’t show it. In fact, it seems the mood in the room has  _lightened,_ if anything, and that pisses Jason off even more. There’s nothing he can’t stand more than not being taken seriously, and the Waynes aren’t taking this seriously enough.

“Jason,” Thomas says, sobering. “An owl feather in my study is hardly cause for real concern. We’re not going to stop now just because the Court  _might_ do something to us.”

Jason knows enough about the Court to know that a warning that unsubtle  _is_ a huge cause of concern, and his lips twist into a snarl. In the end, it doesn’t change the fact that whether the Court is involved or not, or whether this whole story is a lot more convoluted than he was ever led to believe. None of it changes the fact the Waynes are dying.  _Tonight._ “What about your son?” he demands. “What happens to him when you martyr yourself?’”

“Everything we do,” Thomas says, “we do for  _him_. We do it so that he can grow up in a Gotham we’re proud to call home. What would  _you_ be martyring yourself for, Jason?”

“You,” Jason immediately says. “Him. The rest of them. I’ve done it once for a woman who sold me out to a madman, and I’d do it again, even for the slimmestpossibility that things aren’t so fucked up in our future.”

“No,” Martha says, and suddenly, Jason can sense it. He can tell that any hope he had of convincing them was never there in the first place. “Sweetheart, we’re not asking you to.”

“No one has to ask,” Jason growls.

“Is the future so bleak, Jason?” Martha asks, throwing him for a loop. He’s stood in front of Superman’s X-ray vision without flinching, but a stare-down from Martha Wayne, he’s slowly discovering, is another beast entirely. “From what I’ve come to understand, sometime in the future, our son opens our home to children who need him. He does  _good,_ and he clearly did a wonderful job raising you to be good, too. I’m proud to call a man like that my son. And proud, too, to know Bruce has a slew of family who undoubtedly learnt to fight for what they think is just and right, just like you are. Right now.”

An involuntary lump grows in Jason’s throat.

“You’re betting on a better future?” Martha continues. “I’m not. I can't pretend I know how this all works, but I won’t risk you any more than I would my own son.”

“You won’t be risking anything,” Jason tries to argue, one last time. It’s weak, even to his ears.

“We don’t know you,” Thomas says, “Not really, but from what I’ve seen, you deserve so much more than a  _what-if_.”

“You have to go home, Jaybird,” Martha agrees. “Please.”

Jason freezes. “Where did you hear that name?” he breathes.

Martha doesn’t respond to the question, instead insisting, “You need to go home. For us. For them. You love him. You love them. I can tell. I  _know_. And I know your story doesn’t end here.”

“Damn,” Jason says, and suddenly, it’s obvious. So blatantly obvious he feels like an idiot for not having deduced it before. “You’re a meta, aren’t you? Some kind of psychic? Seer? Empath, maybe?”

There’s a flash of fear in Martha’s eyes, and Jason's struck dumb as his deduction is confirmed when Thomas and Alfred alike swarm to her, grounding and protective. Thomas, in particular, has lost all softness and warmth, his body language as fierce as it was when Jason first appeared in their living room, a virtual stranger.  

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Jason says gruffly. “I’m just surprised. I never knew. I don’t think your son did either. Not that it matters. In the future, we are friends with metas and aliens alike.”

The tension drains from them all in an instant, and the look Thomas is giving him is so grateful Jason almost feels uncomfortable. “Then perhaps I am,” Martha admits on an exhale, voice tremulous and quiet, nearly too quiet to hear. “Perhaps not. Meta isn’t a term we use.”

“Maybe not  _yet_ ,” Jason says. He scowls when the artifact jolts, nearly leaping out of his hands. It’s getting hard to focus, to so much as speak over the thing. Jason can feel the vibrations in his chest now, too.

“I don’t like this,” Jason says.   

"But you understand," Martha says, her intuition striking a chord deep within him. He doesn't want to understand, but he sees something of himself, a young Robin with everything to prove and someone to lose, reflected in her eyes. 

"I still don't like this."

“You don’t have to, kid,” Thomas says simply, and damn that smirk on his face. Jason kind of wants to smack it off. Wayne knows it, too. His little smirk grows into a playful smile as he nods his chin toward the jumping artifact in Jason’s hands. “This might be your only chance. Don’t miss your ride.”

“Then you be fucking careful on Park Row,” Jason demands. “Promise me, and I’ll go without another word.”

“We will.”

 Jason bites his lip, unhappy and  _helpless_. “Then I guess that’s it,” he says heavily.

“It is.”

There’s nothing more he can do, no more he can say, and even knowing all this, he still finds it difficult to push the button that’ll take him home. His index finger rests on the right peg, hovering and hesitant. It doesn’t sit well with him, leaving without saying  _something_ more. These are Bruce’s parents. They...inspired  _everything_. They should know, at the very least. They should—

Alfred shifts in the corner of his eye, and Jason’s gaze lands on his cell phone.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. Daring to free one of his hands, he gestures for the phone. “Hand that over. Hurry.”

Thomas gets to it before Alfred does, and he tosses the device to Jason. Without pause, Jason presses the home button and swipes left, pulling up the camera. He pushes  _record,_  slides it back across the island, and says, “Leave a fucking message for your son.” The vibrating is resonating in his ears now. He can barely hear himself talk. “I don’t care what.”

They huddle around the phone, and Jason gives them what time he can. His fingers are beginning to sting with the heat the thing is generating, and he hisses in pain. Steam is rising from its gears they’re spinning so fast, and he has to turn his face away from the pungent smell. His teeth knock against each other, arms jerking with the force of the damn thing’s vibrating, and he closes his eyes against the now-nauseating sensation. Someone—Alfred—is at his side. Jason makes a valiant effort to open his eyes and tries to read his lips without success.

He can’t stay much longer. This thing is fit to blow or fall apart in his hands.

Alfred’s face floats in front of Jason as the man braces him, and Jason realizes he has one more thing to say. “Don’t give up on him, Alfie,” Jason says, probably interrupting whatever it is Alfred’s trying to say to him. He keeps his tone low, so the Waynes won’t overhear. “He sure as hell doesn’t make it easy, sometimes, but don’t give up on him. Because he’s lost without you. We all are. Don’t forget it.”

Alfred frowns, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to respond. Thomas is maneuvering around Alfred and slipping the phone into Jason’s front pocket. He gives it a pat and clasps Jason once on the shoulder before withdrawing. Jason opens his mouth—to thank them, to say goodbye, he doesn’t fucking know—but Martha appears out of fucking nowhere, running her hands over his until she finds the finger Jason has resting against the peg he’s supposed to press. The last thing he sees is her tear-streaked face and brilliant smile before she pushes it for him.

A vacuum of air is suctioned from his lungs, and he falls forward.

He doesn’t see the landing.

~...~

“Jason?”

Jason blinks, vision blurred, eyes burning. Two separate forms swarm in his line of sight, and he shakes his head, rubbing a hand across his face and drawing back in surprise to find his cheeks slick with tears.

“Ge’off, fuckers,” he orders. His tone is curt and hoarse, but it has no heat. The humiliation of being caught like this would normally set him off, but he’s just...exhausted. “I’m fine.”

He flies upright the moment the hoverers have backed away, ignoring the fresh pulse of pain between his eyes and the concerned calls of  _careful, Jason_ and  _easy, Jay._ He twists at the waist and turns away from them, fighting his nausea and swirling vision. They’re kind enough to give him some privacy as he furiously swipes at the evidence staining his face.

Because if there’s one thing he learned from this misadventure, it’s that the world hadn’t deserved Thomas and Martha Wayne.

It takes a moment, but once he’s gotten his involuntary emotional break under control, he realizes he’s back in the Cave. There’s something running in Bruce’s crime lab—he can hear several instruments churning away—and the Computer is emitting its steady hum. The bats rustle in the eaves, every so often chittering and squeaking as they do.

He hasn’t considered this place home in a long time, but just this once...

He’s glad.

And that makes him feel absolutely shitty, that he isn’t more glad. And glad more often. Because two very kind and vibrant people just  _died_ for this reality, and the least he can do is honor them for it.

Jason sighs and rubs his nose into his sleeve. Then he’s heaving himself up, bypassing Dick and Duke and heading straight for Bruce.

Bruce’s brow furrows, and he repeats his name, less an order than it is a request this time. Jason doesn’t wait around for him to say anything more, snatching his phone from his pocket and shoving it into the man’s chest.

“I tried,” is all he can say.

He powers past, and he’s unsurprised when Dickhead falls into step beside him.

“You really are a complete idiot.”

“ _Thanks_ , Dick,” Jason grumbles, not in the mood. When he sees Duke frown from the corner of his eye, he asks, “Anything to add, newbie?”

Duke displays both of his hands, backing off. “Not really. We’ve just been worried sick is all.”

“It’s true,” Dick supplies.

“Yeah, well, save it for someone who cares.”

“Hey,” Dick snaps, and Jason whirls when Dick dares to catch his upper arm and hold him back. Jason throws him vicious glare, a warning sneer on his face, and Dick’s vivid blue eyes narrow. If someone were to light a match between them, Jason’s pretty sure they’d both be consumed in flames in a matter of seconds.

“Don’t be a douche,” Dick finally says. “We’re not going to pester you about where you were or what you saw. I don’t need to know. You’ll need to debrief, sure, but right now, we’re just glad you’re back, okay?”

Jason studies Dick for a moment, reading the sleepless nights and concern all over his face, and heaves a sigh. “Alright, fine. Sorry.” To Duke, who very intelligently stepped aside the moment the sparks starting flying, he adds, “To both of you.”

Duke shrugs, as if to say  _s’all good, man,_ and Dick seems satisfied, too. He finally releases Jason’s arm, eyes softening. “Apology accepted,” his older brother says on behalf of both of them. He manages to keep a straight face for perhaps four seconds total before a Grayson-patented grin, all angles and teeth, splits across his face. “Doesn’t change the fact you’re still a huge moron.”

Aaaand there it is. Jason knew he wasn’t going to live this down. He tries to remind himself that this is a good thing, that it means he hadn’t fucked everything up royally. That the Waynes succeeded in preserving the timeline, just like they wanted to. “That’s it, I’m leaving!” he announces loudly, already angling himself for the Bat Cave’s garage.

“Debrief first! And you need to thank Tim before you go, at the very least!” Dick exclaims, eyes flicking up to the main floor of the Cave, where the Computer and lab is housed.

“A thank you would be nice,” chimes Tim from the floor above.

“Fine.  _Thank you_ ,” Jason spits sarcastically.

“Tt.” Damian leans over the railing of the platform above them. Cass’ dark head of hair pops into view too, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Shame it seems that three weeks lost in time has hardly made an improvement on your temperament, Todd. And here I was, about to greet you with a ‘welcome back.’”

Jason tenses. “Hang on. Did you just say three  _weeks?_ I was only there for two hours! Max!”

Damian shrugs, and Jason mounts the nearest set of metal stairs, taking them two at a time. “Three weeks?” he demands again once he reaches the top.

Tim looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, poking at the charred remnants of the artifact. “Yep, three weeks,” he says, an oddly cheery note in his tone. “And you’re lucky it didn’t take longer. We and the magicians had a lot of fun trying to piece it together. That’s sarcasm, by the way. It wasn’t fun. Not at all. You chose a really shitty piece of shit to time-travel with. Hell, even Doctor Fate had to get involved, in the end.” 

There’s an odd note in Tim’s voice when he says that, but Jason’s mind is reeling like a child’s pinwheel, much too fast for him to make sense of why Doctor Fate’s presence was necessary, let alone  _important_. “Three weeks,” he repeats, a little weakly.

“Too long,” Cass says, sneaking up to wrap him in a hug from behind. He tolerates it. Because it’s Cass. And bless her heart, she knows better than to take advantage. She’s gone nearly as soon as he registers she was there in the first place.

“Yes, and that means you’ll  _also_ need to apologize to Alfred,” Dick says, coming up the stairs behind him. “I hope you have it in you to be at least a  _little_ sincere when you do. He’s been...acting strange since you disappeared.”

Jason’s shoulders fall, and he spins to Dick. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Oi, watch it!” Tim shouts suddenly, smacking Damian when he tries to be a nuisance for the sake of being a nuisance and purposefully walks in front of and all over his impromptu workspace. “Do you want to end up taking Jason’s place as the butt of all the jokes right now? We don’t know if any of it is still active.”

Damian settles himself on one of the Bat Computer chairs, raising a brow at the exploded mess Tim’s currently studying. “Really.”

Cass and Duke snicker from where they decided to perch, and Tim scowls. “Doesn’t hurt to be cautious,” he mutters. “Though you really did a serious number on this thing, Jason.” Ignoring his own advice, he picks up a scorched gear still attached to a splintered peg and uses one finger to send it spinning on its axis. “What did you do? Fall through a volcano on your way back?”

Jason rolls his eyes but otherwise doesn’t see fit to answer. There are more important things to do than snark back at his siblings. “What do you  _mean_ , Dick?” he asks again. “Where’s Alfred?”

The teasing glint in Dick’s blue eyes fades the moment he realizes Jason isn’t fooling around. “Upstairs, taking a break. Damn. We...were supposed to call him. I can go—” Dick’s attention is diverted by something behind Jason, and he stops mid-sentence, brow furrowing. “Bruce?” he asks cautiously.

Dick’s tone is enough to send apprehension rolling down Jason’s spine. He’d forgotten about Bruce. He turns and is met with Bruce’s broad chest. He doesn’t stand a chance: Bruce is pulling him forward and crushing him into a tight embrace before he can so much as blink.

The hug is no longer than Cass’ had been, but Jason can feel Bruce trembling from beginning to end. The man pulls away, his eyes puffy and swollen. In one of his hands is Jason’s phone, the screen still lit.

“I’m...sorry, Bruce,” Jason says, because what else  _can_ he say? There aren’t words.

“Sorry?” Bruce repeats. He sniffs once, and then offers a  _true_ smile, one of those rare smiles Jason used to live for, the special one that sits a little crooked and shy on his face, the one that’s not ditzy Brucie Wayne or sharp, blink-and-you'll-miss-it Batman but actually, wholly  _Bruce_. “Jaybird, this has been a gift beyond all imagining.  _Thank you_.”

It’s been a long time since Bruce has called him that, and Jason can’t muster an appropriate response. His tongue is thick and useless, so he nods, a little stiffly.

Smile softening, Bruce raises his gaze from Jason and gestures everyone forward. “Come here,” he requests.

Dick is the first to move, wary. Damian, ever keyed into his favorite partner’s movements, follows like a shadow, with Tim, Duke, and Cass in the rear. “...What’s going on?” Dick asks.

“Jason brought a message back from the past,” Bruce says. “From my parents.”

Dick shoots Jason an incredulous look. “No way,” he breathes.

“And it wasn’t only for me,” Bruce says, sitting in the chair Damian just vacated.

“What?” Jason asks dumbly.

“Watch.”

It’s funny, how easily they settle in around B. Jason, as the tallest, gets to watch over Bruce’s shoulder alongside Dick, the younger ones standing or otherwise crouching beside the chair’s armrests.

The first few seconds of the video are a blur, seeing as Jason had started the recording for the two Waynes prior to handing the phone off to them. There’s an obnoxious buzzing in the background, undoubtedly from the stupid time-travel gadget, but eventually, the camera frame settles on the image of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

“ _Oh_ ,” Thomas says, leaning closer so that most of the screen is full of his forehead. “ _This is incredible.”_

 _“What about this_ isn’t _?”_ Martha asks, nudging her husband back so that he isn’t consuming the entire frame. “ _Bruce, love, you sure know how to pick them_.”

As if to prove her point, there’s a tirade of muffled cursing from Jason in the background. Martha’s gaze rises over the edge of the camera, a soft smile gracing her lips. “ _It’s so hard, to know we don’t have more time,”_ she murmurs. _“Not that your boy didn’t try. He was willing to sacrifice so much for us, Bruce. ‘This is what we do_ , _’ he said. We had a bit of a row about it. He lost.”_

Thomas takes her hand and rubs gentle circles between her knuckles with his thumb. Martha seems to rally herself, and with a quick shake of her auburn hair, the melancholy is gone, replaced with sparkling humor and love. “ _And here I am, wasting what time we have left. And, of course, I don’t...”_

 _“I’ll start,”_ Thomas murmurs, just barely loud enough for the camera to pick up. He presses a kiss into Martha’s hair and turns back to the camera, blue eyes striking even through the screen. “ _Hello, Bruce. I can’t know for sure at what age you will be seeing this. Judging by Jason’s, I can only assume you have already lived and loved and made plenty of mistakes along the way, so I’ll spare you from suffering through a slew of needless advice and life-lessons from your old man. You’ve always been a smart lad. I’m sure you hardly need me to tell you what your priorities should be or what you should be doing with your life. Instead, I’ll tell you what I wish I had been able to hear from my father, at least once."_  Some of the gentle humor in his voice is replaced by something heartrendingly earnest. _I am proud of you. No matter who you are now, or who you’ve been in between, I am so proud of you, Bruce. And I always will be.”_

 _“And you are_ cherished _, Bruce, dear,”_ Martha adds, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “ _To the moon and back again, across timelines and any number of universes. There is nothing and no one that will ever change that, and no manner of monster, bat, or clown will ever be able to take that way from you, even if we aren’t there to tell you—show you—just how much we love you. Every single day._

“ _Though we hear tell,_ ” Thomas is saying, with a hint of an amused smile,  _“that you shouldn’t have too much trouble remembering. Not with the children you chose to let into your life.”_

 _“Or rather: the ones who chose_ you _,”_ Martha corrects.  _“To all you dear birds—past, present, and future—I wish, with all my heart, we could have met you, but we don’t need to, to know that every last one of you is an absolute gift. You are all_ remarkable _. I...can’t thank you enough, for all that you are. Look after each other, alright? And whenever it gets too dark to see, don’t be afraid to lean upon one another. You all burn bright alone, but you also tend to generate a little more light when you face the darkness together.”_

 _“And don’t forget give Bruce hell now and then. Keep him on his toes,”_ Thomas suggests, adding a wink. “ _Though I suspect you’ll have some trouble one-upping Jason after this one.”_

Martha pulls a face and lightly smacks her husband’s shoulder. “ _Don’t go encouraging them into more dangerous stunts. I have a feeling they get into enough trouble as it is.”_ She twists out of the frame for a moment, only to return just as abruptly. “ _It’s time.”_

The smile in Thomas’ eyes fades, for just a moment, before returning with a vengeance. His voice is deeply tender as he signs off with,  _“Take care, Bruce. Kids. We love you_. _Always._ ”

A few glistening tears slide down Martha’s face. “ _And we wish you_ every  _happiness,_ ” she says. 

The video stopped, pausing on an image of their sad, smiling faces. Bruce’s thumb trails over the screen. “She’s right,” he rumbles, the first to break the silence. “You are all remarkable. I don’t say it often enough.”

“Thanks, B,” Dick says softly. During the middle of the video, he’d gotten ahold of Damian and Tim. “They...” He hesitates, and then soldiers on, voice rent with sympathy and compassion. As the oldest Robin, and as the one who’d been with Bruce the longest, Jason isn’t surprised he’s the one who took away the most from that video. “They seemed wonderful.”

“They were,” Bruce agrees, and his sharp gaze darts around to each of them before landing on Jason.

It’s been awhile since Jason could read Bruce so clearly. The bond they formed as Batman and Robin had become distorted over the years, their values not quite aligning and their stubborn heads often getting in the way of true understanding, their miscommunication compounding and compounding upon a shared shit pile of resentment, guilt, and heartbreak that made it difficult, if actually impossible, to regain any common ground without back-sliding at some point or another.

But...once a Robin, always a Robin. Jason can pretend he doesn’t understand, but there are some things that no partner of Batman can simply  _ignore_.

 _I still hurt, I always will, but I wouldn’t change a thing,_ Jason reads in Bruce’s face,  _especially if it meant losing any of you._

Jason jerks his chin up into a half-nod of acknowledgement. Beside him, his siblings are responding in their own subtle ways.

And Bruce smiles that smile.

“Master Jason.”

Jason pulls away from the group, looking around Bruce’s chair to find Alfred watching the scene from the edge of the main platform.

“Oh,” Dick says, abrupt. He offers an apologetic smile that has absolutely no effect on Alfred. “Jason’s awake.”

“I see that, Master Dick,” Alfred says sarcastically. “Thank you for informing me.” The butler fiddles with something in his hands and adds, “A word, Master Jason, if you will.”

The rest of the family is murmuring amongst themselves, but most of their attention is on Jason’s back as he disengages and trots up to Alfred. “Sup, Alfie?”

The old man’s lips twitch. “I have waited a long time,” he says quietly, “to return these to their proper owner.”

Jason quirks a brow and watches, realization dawning, as Alfred pops open the buckles of the case he’s carrying and displays two finely maintained pistols. _His_ pistols. “Oh,” he mutters, and he pats his flanks, almost embarrassed to find he was completely unaware he’d left the past without his guns. “You...you kept them? This whole time?” He pauses. “You  _knew,"_ he realizes aloud. "And you didn’t say anything?”

“It was one of the hardest things I have had to do in my entire career,” Alfred admits. “Especially on the day I met a child from Crime Alley who was all brass and fire, and so much like the odd stranger who stood before me, a long, long time before, and told me not to give up. To never forget.”

Jason stares at the man, a whirlwind of indefinable emotion storming through him. “You’re a fucking legend, Alfred. We don’t thank you often enough, do we?”

“This time, my boy,” Alfred says, eyes moist, “it is I who needs to thank  _you_.”

* * *

Life, if well lived, is long enough -Seneca

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Paraphrased quote from the Nolanverse Dark Knight trilogy
> 
> (2) reference to Alan Scott, who was a Green Lantern acting in Gotham at one point. I honestly don't know much about him outside of that, so any inconsistencies are on me. :)
> 
> Alsooooo, I don't have a solid read on Martha's meta abilities, but that's kind of the point. I hope it was clear enough that she's untrained, her abilities unrefined, and that she has been downplaying her "natural intuition" her whole life. I threw a Court of Owls conspiracy in there, too, so it's up to you to decide how much of Martha Wayne's secret abilities, paired with both her and her husband's refusal to join them, may or may not play into that. ;)


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